


the thumping in your chest

by insunshine



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Edmonton Oilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts before morning skate, with a messy kitchen and a pan-full of lumpy and misshapen cupcakes no one would even eat on a dare and continues out to the car where the driver’s side has all sorts of bows and ribbons and a huge-ass sign that says: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RYAN WHITNEY!!! in Ebby’s handwriting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the thumping in your chest

**Author's Note:**

> For my Erinface, on the occasion of Ryan Whitney's birth. (Sorry it's a little late!!! I had a Hawks game to lose my mind over.)

You know what Gags is? It takes Whit a while to understand, a couple of seasons on the team for that knowledge to really get cemented, but Gags, wouldn’t you know it, is a fucking pro at cocksucking.

They’re in his truck, because they both live with teenagers—Gags pulls off to say, “Hallsy’s at least twenty, Whit,” and shit. You shouldn’t bring up somebody’s annoying teenaged roommate when you just had their balls in your mouth. 

That should definitely be a rule for all cock suckers everywhere. It could be a tenant at Cock Suckers Anonymous or something.

“What are you doing?” he asks, because he’s pretty sure if you’re having sex and also still able to carry on conversations, you’re not having sex right. He says so, says, “So, get at it,” gesturing down, but Gags just smirks at him, which is fucking ridiculous, considering.

“Considering what?” Sam asks, and then he licks his lips because he’s kind of a tease. He dips his head back down, though, because, real talk: he’s pretty great sometimes, too.

Whit doesn’t tug on Sam’s hair, even though it’s long enough that he could totally do it if he wanted, just tips his head back against the headrest and stares out at the darkness of the parking garage.

It’s dark and a little creepy, but it’s late enough at night that he can pretend they’re outside, which sort of makes it better. Besides, Gags is doing some good work, sucking hard, and hollowing his cheeks in this way that smacks of practice.

“Shit,” Whit curses, even if he didn’t necessarily mean to speak. When Gags pulls off again, his lips are spit-shiny.

“You coming soon?” he asks, and Whit nods, because it’s easier than trying to figure out how to make decent English. Sam hums, pressing his mouth to Whit’s thigh and worrying his teeth down against the skin there. He works his fist loosely around Whit’s cock.

It doesn’t take much longer. Less than a dozen strokes, easy, but you’ve gotta remember, he’s been primed for a while. He’s been ready to go. 

Gags pulls some napkins from the glove compartment when he’s done, cleaning off his fingers and most of the mess on Whit’s dick. This kind of shit is the embarrassing, messy part of sex that nobody really talks about, but it’s sort of nice, too, sometimes. He likes that Gags isn’t shy about it.

When he’s gotten most of the mess, Sam leans back against the seat, flicking the top button of his jeans undone and pulling his cock out. Everything about him is relaxed, except for the way he’s chewing on his bottom lip, concentrating hard like he’s getting ready for a test or he’s in the rotation for a shootout or something.

“You want some help with that?” Whit asks, because he tries not to be a dick on the regular, and because he and Gags haven’t really been doing this for long enough that reciprocal orgasms are a foregone conclusion.

A season and a half sounds like a long time, but only if you don’t factor out, like, girlfriend-times or summers spent at home, or, like whatever weird thing Gags gets up to with Nuge and Schultzy at their House of Horrors or whatever. 

The point is, it’s not actually that much time. He can probably count the amount of times they’ve hooked up on two hands. Maybe three. 

“Sure,” Gags says, easy, and if he’s surprised when Whit scoots across the bench to kiss him, he doesn’t say anything or, you know, pull away. Whit wasn’t even worried about it, fitting one hand to curve around Gag’s cheek, and using the other to start jerking him in his shorts.

He’s half-hard, chubbed and getting there, and it doesn’t take all that long at all to get him going, to find a rhythm and stick to it.

Gags is groaning a little against his mouth, and Whit pulls back enough for them both to breathe, so he can see that guy’s face, maybe. His cheeks are flushed, lashes fanning out, and he looks so pretty—he’s always so fucking pretty, and most people don’t even notice.

What a fucking joke the world is.

“Hey,” Sam says, and when Whit looks over at him again, he’s sort of smiling. He looks a little strung out, like he’s right on the edge of something, and oh. Right. 

“Sorry,” Whit says, and he’d blush, maybe, if that hadn’t been beaten out of him at age, like, seven, in rinks back home. 

Gags just rolls his eyes, and tugs Whit back by the fabric of his v-neck. “Just get back over here, assface,” he says.

Whit snorts against his mouth. They’re all class.

;;

The thing with messing around with somebody on your team is that no matter how chilled out about it you are, no matter how secretive or fucking, like, stealthy you are, everybody’s gonna know. Not everybody’s gonna be cool, most likely, because in Whit’s experience people tend to be jackasses, but. 

Pretty much everybody’s gonna know. Whether they care or not isn’t any of his business, as long as they don’t say anything douchey. It’s kind of a tall order in their locker room, especially with kids on the team, but as far as he knows, no one’s said anything to Sam, and if Horcoff or the Kid-Line care, they’ve mostly kept it to themselves.

It’s his birthday, and because he’s been on this team for a while, and fucking, _because_ he’s lived with Hallsy and Ebs for such a fucking long time, he knows that they’re planning something.

It starts before morning skate, with a messy kitchen and a pan-full of lumpy and misshapen cupcakes no one would even eat on a dare and continues out to the car where the driver’s side has all sorts of bows and ribbons and a huge-ass sign that says: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RYAN WHITNEY!!! in Ebby’s handwriting.

Hallsy’s scribbles are, like, barely a step above chicken-scratch, so it’s not at all surprising he’s not the one behind the craftier side of things. It’s even less surprising if you consider that Hallsy’s the one responsible for the mess in the kitchen.

It’s a pretty sweet deal that they have Marta, their cleaning woman, come in every Wednesday, because they’d seriously be fucked otherwise.

“You guys are assholes,” Whit says, but he fistbumps Hallsy his thanks, and gives Ebs a hug, because pink steamers and bows and a sign is way more than he was expecting, even if he shouldn’t be surprised. Aside from Gags, maybe, these assholes are the two people he spends time with the most.

“Happy birthday, Whit!” They shout it in unison, because they’re that kind of dumb, but it’s. Whatever. It’s nice. Whit doesn’t feel old, but compared to these kids, he’s kind of ancient.

He says, “Thanks,” though, because he tries not to be too grumpy if he can help it, especially when they’re actually making the effort to be decent.

At the rink, the guys know about it too, so there’s obviously shit all over his stall; pictures of girls that are stacked out to here in tiny, triangle-shaped bikinis and a couple of cases of beer. 

There are also, obviously, several Over The Hill birthday cards, because the kids think they’re clever. He’s not even the oldest guy on the team, but when you share space with somebody like Nuge on a regular basis, the differences seem pretty monumental, especially considering his baby face. 

“Happy birthday, Whit,” Gags says, and Whit doesn’t get startled or anything, because everybody’s been sort of crowding around and into his space, but that dude is like, right there when he looks up again.

“You here to call me an old man too?” he asks, and Sam just laughs, tipping his head back like it’s hilarious, like Whit was actually making a joke instead of whining about their asshole teammates.

Gags shrugs, pinching in closer. “I don’t have to,” he says around a fucking ridiculous smile. “You said it for me.”

The only reason Whit isn’t stuck staring is because he’s gotten used to curbing those types of impulses in the room. Jesus, Gags is pretty, though. Fuck.

“Yeah, thanks, Sammy,” he says, knocking his arm against Sam’s. He’s maybe a beat too late. It took him a couple seconds longer than he intended, but Gags just smiles at him again before going over to get his gear on. 

Whit doesn’t look over at him. He knows the rules. He’s also a grown-ass man. He doesn’t need to stare at his—whatever Gags is. His booty call. He definitely doesn’t need to stare at his booty call in the locker room like a creeper, just because it’s his birthday.

;;

They win in OT.

It’s, like. Listen, maybe he didn’t score, but he did spend almost a full thirty on the ice, and he got an assist on Nailer’s short-handed goal in the second, and maybe it wasn’t a record night, but they still won.

“We fucking _won_ ,” he says later, arm wrapped around Sam’s shoulder in the bar. The whole team is out, it seems like, but it’s dark enough in here that if anybody sees him leaning into Gags, nobody cares.

Who would care, anyway? They’re not Ebs or Hallsy, and not Faces of the Organization at all, even though Gags probably should be, considering he does things like getting eight fucking points in games sometimes.

“Do you remember that one time,” Whit says, and wow, maybe he’s drunker than he realized. He’s totally slurring. Maybe he’s _a lot_ drunker than he realized, because Gags just grins at him, pulling him in for a hug that’s sloppy and loose.

Whit’s sitting, so he and Gags are almost the same height when Sam scoots in and his lips bump high against Whit’s cheekbone.

“You want to stop by later?” he asks, and then totally uses the advantage of proximity to steal a sip from Whit’s beer.

“Hey,” Whit snaps, reaching out to grip at Sam’s wrist, even though he doesn’t even care. It’s not like they don’t swap spit on a semi-regular basis, anyway. 

Gags just rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, and damn, that’s a good look on him. “Hey,” he repeats. “You should come by. Schultzy and Nuge are, like.”

He pauses, making a face like he doesn’t want to know. If Gags doesn’t want to know and he lives with those guys, then Whit obviously doesn’t want to know either.

“They’re, like. I don’t fucking know. You should, though. If you want. I didn’t give you your birthday gift earlier.”

He looks casual, is the thing. Gags is wearing a white t-shirt under his Oilers hoodie, and a ball cap. He could be any bro in this bar right now, except Whit’s not going home with any bro in this bar.

It makes him a little dizzy to think about, to be honest. Gags licks at his lips like maybe he knows, like maybe he can tell what Whit’s thinking right this minute.

That’s a fucking terrifying thought.

“I’m, uh,” Whit says, and then gestures randomly back toward the pool table on the other end of the bar where Ebs is trying to teach Hallsy the right way to chalk his cue. “I’m getting the hell away from you right now, Gagner.”

Gags just grins. He’s an asshole.

;;

They take separate cars back to Gags’ place, because Whit’s never really spent the night before, and they have optional skate in the morning.

It’s not a huge house, but there are four bedrooms and a spare half-bath for kicks. Whit’s never really gotten the concept of calling it a half anything, considering he’s always been too big to take baths anyway, but whatever. It’s not his bathroom, so it doesn’t really matter.

He doesn’t get a lot of time to consider it either way. Sam pulls him down by the scruff of his neck and kisses him right in the entranceway, pressing their mouths fully together and digging the fingers of his free hand hard against Whit’s side.

“You wanna fuck me?” Gags asks when he pulls away, dropping back to his heels. “We have the day off tomorrow, so I figured—”

Even in the low-light filtering in through the windows, Whit can tell his mouth is bruised. Shit.

“Shit,” Whit says, because he’s never been the best with words, not when faced with something like this. “Are you serious?”

Gags rolls his eyes, but Whit is serious. Whit is so fucking serious, and getting hard, his dick chubbed and interested in his jeans.

“Because, you know,” Whit says, clearing his throat. “I’m obviously interested. Obviously.” He’s a fucking loser and a half, though, because he actually gestures down to his crotch like he’s a used car salesman or something. Like he’s Vanna White and his dick is the fucking clue board.

Jesus fuck.

“I can see that,” Gags says, but he’s laughing, pinching in closer again, and that’s something, too; the way he’s not intimidated about getting into Whit’s space, the way he always pushes back.

“Sorry,” Whit says, which is dumb. This whole thing is fucking stupid. He’s not some blushing virgin on prom night and he’s pretty sure Gags isn’t either, judging by the fucking confident swagger in his hips and the way he reaches back and tangles their fingers together without even looking.

His room is on the second floor, at the end of the hall next to the bathroom. Whit’s never actually been on the second floor, so he doesn’t know where Nuge or Schultzy’s rooms are, but he doesn’t much care, not when Gags pulls him into the room and locks the door behind them.

He’s neat. That’s the first thing Whit always notices. They all get pretty roughed up sometimes, that’s just the job, but Sam’s always quick to fold up his things, and Whit can’t see much with just the lamp on, but it looks like the bed is neatly made, even if the edges aren’t hospital-corner fresh.

When Sam’s naked, he looks back at Whit, over his fucking shoulder like some porn vixen or something, instead of a random, skinny dude, with weirdly protruding muscles and a shit-eating grin.

“I have no idea why I’m into you,” Whit says, which is better than: _shit, you’re actually so fucking pretty, what are you even doing with me, you asshole_. What’s best is that Gags just laughs, sweeping his own arms down his body like, yup. This is all there is.

Whit’s so fucking gone it’s disgusting.

“Are you coming over here or what?” Gags asks, and yeah. Yes. 

Whit takes off his shit, like, lightning fast. Maybe he doesn’t fold it all nice and neat like Gags did, but he’s naked too all of the sudden, and they see each other in the raw all the time, but it’s not. He’s pretty sure it’s never been like this. They’ve never really had the time or inclination to let it go this far. 

The bed is soft when they bounce back onto the mattress, and Gags laughs, like maybe he does that all the time. Maybe he has guests he does this with nightly.

“Are you, uh,” Whit asks, when Sam reaches out to grab the condoms and the AstroGlide from the drawer. “You do this a lot?”

Sam chews on his bottom lip, and when Whit prods at his side, he drops his head back and laughs. “Are you asking if I’m a virgin?” 

Whit shrugs. He doesn’t really know what he’s asking. “Did we ever really talk about it? Uh,” he stalls a bit. “Our experiences, I mean.”

He’s definitely not expecting Gags to laugh again, but he does, low and deep. Whit can feel it where their chests are pressed together, and shit, there’s nothing else like that feeling. He laughs, too, but he’s also blushing like an idiot.

“I don’t think we did,” Gags says conversationally. “I mean, considering the first time we hooked up, I blew you at the summer barbecue. There wasn't really much talking.”

Whit ducks his face against Sam’s shoulder, biting a little at the tendon there. It makes Gags stop laughing, at least, makes him shiver, and that’s enough. That’s like, way more than enough.

His cock never got soft, but he’d lost some momentum. He’s not losing any momentum now, hard and straining against Sam’s hip.

“Have you done ...that?” Whit asks. He’s pretty sure he knows what the answer will be, but he’s still got to check. “Because I haven’t,” he adds. “If you want to, like. If you want to, maybe, sometime. Later. If you want to do me, another time, maybe, that’d be cool.”

Gags sits up a little straighter, but he’s full-out grinning when he says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Whit says, shoving at his shoulder a little. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, asshole.”

“Noted,” Sam says, and then they’re kissing again, both of Sam’s hands on his face, keeping him close.

It’s easy to lose time like that, the two of them moving easily, languidly, their hips mostly lining up with Sam on his back and Whit between his legs.

They’re both breathing hard when they break apart, Sam’s cheeks flushed and pink, and he says, “I’ve slept with a bunch of people,” slowly. “And I’ve gotten fucked. I like it both ways, mostly. I’m not picky. I am clean, but I prefer, you know, condoms.” He takes a breath and says, “We should fuck. I mean, if you want to.”

Whit kisses him again and says, “Yeah, I fucking want to.”

He’s fucked a few guys in his time, too, a few ladies as well, so he’s no stranger to it. He knows how much lube to squirt on his fingers to coat them, remembers to warm it up, because the shock of cold is a little overwhelming sometimes, on top of all those other sensations.

“One or two?” he asks, because some people like to skip the preamble.

He’s not sure why Gags is grinning so hard when he says, “Two, c’mon,” but if he’s honest, Whit will take it. He’ll take pretty much anything, right now.

Sam’s tight. That’s probably what anybody sitting here would say, but it’s fucking true. He’s warm and tight, and Whit drops his head to Sam's stomach, breathing hard.

“Do you,” he says abortively. “You don’t even know how you feel right now.”

He’s pretty sure Gags shouldn’t be laughing, but he is, and he says, “Maybe not, but it’s not like I haven’t fingered myself before.”

Whit has to take a second. He has to take a lot of fucking seconds, because Jesus Christ, what an image. 

“You,” he mumbles. “Next time, will you show me?”

Gags grins at him, wide and a little dopey, but he says, “Yeah, Whit. Sure.”

He’s at it for a while, working his fingers into Sam slow, trying to find the spot that’s gonna make his eyes roll back in his head. 

“You want three?” he asks, eventually, and Gags nods, his movements jerky. Whit drips more lube over his fingers, making sure it’s warmed, making sure that it’s enough and then fits another finger inside of Sam, watching the way he shifts, the way his stomach trembles.

It’s not like he’s never fucked a dude before. Whit has to keep reminding himself that there have been others, not that he can call up a single one of their names or faces right at the moment.

“C’mon,” Sam whines, knocking his heel against Whit’s side. “C’mon, please. I’m ready.”

Whit says, “Okay,” but it still takes him a few seconds to move his fingers out. “Seriously,” he grunts, trying to hold himself still. “You want to back out, you have to tell me, like. Now.”

Sam stares back at him and shakes his head. “Let’s do this,” he says.

“Right,” Whit says. “Okay.”

He works his way in. Sam’s still tight, still warm, but it’s magnified about a million times, the two of them fitting together in a way that shouldn’t be so easy, but is. This is different than anything they’ve ever done, even though his body knows Sam’s, knows how they fit together.

When he bottoms out, he sees sparks in the corners of his eyes, and he freezes, staying completely still. 

“You okay?” Sam asks after a second, because it’s been—seriously, it’s been some time, and Whit can’t make himself move.

He’s such an idiot.

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Fuck off. I’m fine, Gagner.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks. “Prove it.” He’s smirking, the asshole. Fucking hell. “Fuck me,” he says, the challenge thick in his voice. 

Whit says, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” and he does, planting his hands on either side of Sam’s hips and starting the outward slide.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from the song Shiver, Shiver by Walk the Moon, which has to be one of the sexiest songs I've heard in a while. I figured that'd be good, considering this story is almost entirely porn.


End file.
